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Pausing, the words he was saying sounding more like verbal torture than a reasoned solution to a shared and bitter problem, she looked up into the hard, handsome planes of his unforgiving face and suddenly her eyes narrowed as hatred, quick and burning, filled the smoky eyes that had been huge pools of misery.
'After you're settled somewhere I will try to drop by from time to time,' he was remarking levelly as she pulled her shoulders straight, her voice like a spitting cat as she retorted,
'You won't have to waste your time. I wouldn't let you over the doorstep!'
And he could make what he liked of that, she thought as she swept past him, her head high, two spots of hectic colour blazing along her cheekbones.
As far as she was concerned there was no way their separation would resemble anything like a civilised arrangement!
She had finished with him; no more pining, no more regrets. Nothing! And she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing that her violent reaction to a fairly reasonable suggestion had been sparked by the lingering fragrance of the light but definitely exotic perfume she had detected on his clothes!
He would never know that she was blindingly jealous of the woman, whoever, who wore such a distinctive perfume for him, the woman whose arms he had left before coming home to tell his wife he was in the process of finding some suitable hole to bury her in! And no one could tell her—no one!—that he hadn't been scheming and plotting to discover the best way of being rid of her long before she had told him things couldn't go on the way they were. And no wonder he didn't want a divorce just yet—a wife in the background would be the perfect let-out for a man whose mistress became too , demanding!
Her fury carried her up the stairs at a pace that might have astounded her had she been capable of thinking of it. She was not going to be put where she didn't want to go! She would not be discreetly hidden away, an unwanted wife, allowing her highly sexed, highly attractive, non-committed husband to conduct amorous affairs with the beautiful, available women who would be only too delighted to bring a little warmth and comfort to his lonely life!
'So there you are! Meg said she thought you were sunning yourself.'
Cleo opened her heavy eyelids to see Fiona walking over the immaculately tended lawn at the back of the house. The small garden was Thornwood's pride, every plant treated as though it were a precious child, and it provided a corner of peace and beauty, unexpected in the heart of the sprawling, mighty city.
'No, don't move,' Fiona commanded softly, settling herself on the sun-warmed grass as Cleo swung her long legs from the sun lounger. 'You look so comfy! And congratulations on your super news! How are you, anyway?' Long, deep blue eyes—so like Jude's—narrowed as they swept Cleo's drawn features. 'Junior giving you a bad time?'
'Ah.' The wrinkle of perplexity cleared from Cleo's brow as the penny dropped. Jude must have told his sister about the baby. She wondered drily if he'd also said he believed it to be Fenton's. Cursing the colour that flooded her face at that horrible thought she lay back, trying to look relaxed. 'A little.'
It was nothing like the truth. Jude's baby wasn't giving her a bad time, and if it ever did she wouldn't complain. Her baby was the only thing she had and already she loved it with a fierce maternalism that amazed her. The coming child meant more to her than her high-powered job, her private fortune, more than Jude. Much more. Unconsciously, her mouth formed a grim, straight line. She had cut Jude out of her life. He was devious, cruel and she was well rid of him.
'How was the Paris trip?' Cleo carefully turned the subject, but Fio
na was having none of that.
'Fine,' she dismissed with a throwaway gesture of long- fingered hands. 'But I didn't break into my lazy holiday to talk about that.' She wriggled out of the short-sleeved jacket of her silvery-grey cotton skirt suit and the hot sun caressed the skin of her bare arms, turning it gold. 'Jude tells me you're working too hard. I'm glad to see you taking it easy today.'
That surprised her; she didn't think he noticed what she did, or cared. But she wasn't going to be the one to explain that the marriage was over. 'I didn't feel like going in today. Maybe I'll get something done at home this afternoon.'
And that was the truth. Another day cooped up with Luke had been more than she could face this morning. Jealous fury had kept her awake most of the night and she'd surfaced at dawn, determined to do as Jude had obviously done, and cut her losses, decide for herself what to do with her life.
'He also told me you were on the look-out for a country home—somewhere to bring the baby up in,' Fiona said slowly, and Cleo asked, her mouth dry,
'When did you see him?
Had Jude confided in his sister, told her his marriage was over? They were very close..,
'Last night.' Fiona plucked at the silky fabric of her scarlet sleeveless top, the heat in the sun-trap of the garden getting to her. 'He came to the cottage where I'm, supposed to be treating myself to a spot of relaxation after the madhouse of the Paris fashion world. And the upshot was, I've never felt less relaxed in my life.' The blue eyes were shrewd. 'Look—I've got a lot to say to you, but I'm parched. Why don't I ask Meg if she can find us a long, cool drink?'
'I'm sorry—let me go--'
Cleo was on her feet, annoyed with herself for her lack of hospitality, but Fiona had a mind of her own and was on her feet, too, standing close as she instructed, 'I'll do it. Stay here and rest. And that's an order!'
Cleo frowned, her eyes finding her sister-in-law's, puzzled. 'The perfume you're wearing?' she asked slowly. 'Were you wearing it last night?'
'Sure.' Fiona looked as though she thought Cleo had gone slightly mad. Then she smiled disarmingly, 'I've been drenching myself in the stuff ever since I had it made up for me in Paris. Like it? There's this little place—they blend fragrances for individual customers. Cost the earth—but worth it!'
She swung away, up the short flight of stone steps that led to the terrace, disappearing into the house through the open french windows of Jude's study, and Cleo sank down on the grass, her head resting on her jean-clad knees. The relief was overwhelming, stupidly, gloriously overwhelming.
Jude hadn't been womanising last night. He had been visiting his sister, and it was her perfume that had clung to his clothes! The knowledge shouldn't have made anydifference—nothing could alter the fact that their marriage was over—but it did. But it made her feel vulnerable again, consumed with pain, because the reason for her fury was gone, undermining her grim determination to cut him completely out of her life, to make her future empty of even the memory of him.
'Our luck's in!' Fiona appeared with two tall glasses, ice-cubes clinking.
'Freshly made lemon juice--' She handed Cleo a glass and sank down beside her, sipping her drink thirstily. And when the last drop was gone she put the glass aside and said seriously, 'I'm about to interfere—with no apologies whatsoever. There's something badly wrong between you and Jude, and don't explode--' this as Cleo spluttered on her drink '—because it won't do any good. I intend to get at the truth.'
